Wreck
by JMcK
Summary: A tough case throws Morgan and JJ for a loop.


_Author's note: I tried not to write this. Honestly. But the damn thing won't get out of my head. It's not your typical CM fic. Certainly not my typical CM fic. But with that said, there are a lot of things I'm learning to love about it. Give it a chance. Let me know what you think. It could stand alone as a one-shot, but… I'd kind of like to take it further._

_For those who might be reading my other CM fic, I'm not giving up on 'Face'. Should have a new chapter of that one up before long. _

_Enjoy._

**Wreck**

It started just like any other day.

He pulled into the lot behind the building, tossed a friendly, familiar grin at Roger the security guard.

"Good morning, Mr. Morgan," the over-eager youngster called out.

"Not bad, for a Monday," he returned smoothly.

He gave the kid about half a wave as he rounded the corner and caught sight of JJ hopping out of her car, having just parked in her usual spot, next to his.

She flashed him a 'hello' sort of smile, and he returned it, and by the time he'd parked and gotten out of his own vehicle, she was leaning into the back seat of hers, reaching for something.

"Hey, morning JJ," he greeted, stuffing his keys into his pocket. "Help you with something?"

She turned and straightened up, balancing a cake box and two trays of steaming hot coffee in her arms.

"Yeah, you wanna grab that?" She gestured at one of the trays with her chin.

He took it from her, nodding in response to her muttered thanks, and quickly counted the cups.

"Seven specialty coffees for seven extra special agents?" He quipped, as they started to move toward the building. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Emily's birthday," she informed him.

"Yeah? Damn. She didn't tell me."

He said it with a sigh, like he would have done something if she had.

But the truth was, this kind of gesture, it was JJ's thing.

The rest of them were used to that.

"Let me guess," he said conversationally, pointing to the cake box with one hand, holding the elevator door for her with the other. "Chocolate?"

"Triple chocolate fudge," JJ announced, a hint of something almost mischievous in her eyes as she smiled. "Em won't be able to resist."

Morgan nodded his approval, jabbed the elevator button.

Chocolate, that was Emily's thing. Her guilty pleasure.

He was just a little bit proud of himself for having remembered that.

When the elevator reached their floor, they stepped out together, made their way toward the bullpen.

Emily was already there, at her desk.

And neither of them missed the sheer delight in her eyes, when they approached bearing birthday goodies and birthday wishes.

It took mere seconds for Hotch and Gideon and Garcia to emerge from their offices and join them, and Reid arrived just a minute or two later.

For far too short a time, they celebrated. Teased each other, laughed together, indulged in too many calories to count, far too early in the day.

And then Hotch got a phone call, and he pulled JJ aside, and they talked in hushed voices, and JJ disappeared in the direction of her office.

"Everything okay?" Reid asked, and Morgan followed his gaze to Hotch's face, curious as well.

"She's getting organized to present the case," Hotch told them.

"She said she was ready," Reid noted, confused.

"She was." Hotch looked dismal. "But there's been a change of plans."

That was where the day took it's first real turn, Morgan would realize later.

That phone call that meant they were going to take a different case than they'd planned, because the daughter of one of the FBI's own was missing.

…

The victim was nine-year-old Madeline Merringer.

The family was living in Florida, JJ informed everyone.

Special Agent Merringer had taken an extended leave in the wake of learning that his young daughter had been sexually abused by her swimming instructor.

The girl who appeared on the screen at the click of JJ's remote was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, all-American beauty.

She reminded JJ of her niece, in physical appearance alone.

She reminded Morgan of himself, for entirely different reasons.

And that was where the trouble began.

They both cared too much.

That they were paired together, assigned to examine the family home – that didn't help.

…

They spent an agonizing half hour with the guilt-wrecked parents late that morning, trying to find the words to reassure them without making promises they had no right to make.

"We're doing everything we can, Mrs. Merringer."

"I promise you, we will do everything in our power, Mr. Merringer."

And then, finally, because they wanted to believe it was true:

"We're gonna bring her home."

And their eyes met then, after Morgan said those words that they were never supposed to say, and he waited for JJ to contradict him, to acknowledge that they could only do their best.

She said nothing.

…

Next they wandered little Madeleine's bedroom.

'MADDIE', a colorful door hanging announced.

Maddie, just nine years old.

"All right, so… he came through the window," Morgan started, when they first stepped through the door.

But it was as far as he got.

He was in the little girl's head today. Not the unsub's.

He stood there and watched as JJ perused the room, picking up childhood knick knacks and putting them back down again.

"She won the spelling bee," JJ murmured at one point, almost to herself.

It meant nothing to their case, and she wasn't sure why she said it out loud, and Morgan didn't respond.

They spent another twenty minutes that way.

Studying the room.

Registering a hundred little painfully precious facts about Madeleine Merringer.

Trying to remember to think like the unsub.

Learning next to nothing at all.

…

Over a takeout lunch in their bureau car, they spit out their frustration.

They agreed that the pedophile swimming instructor was probably the kidnapper.

Agreed that he should be taken out and shot.

They couldn't miss each other's tone, the evident emotional investment.

Their eyes met, they looked each other over.

JJ offered up an explanation first, her voice soft:

"I've got a niece her age."

She met his eyes, waited for his explanation.

"Derek?"

He shrugged, stared out over the dashboard.

"Like you said, she's nine years old."

He volunteered nothing else.

…

They were headed back to local headquarters when a call came in from Garcia.

"This may or may not be our scumbag," she started. "But the ER at Mercy Hospital just treated a total germophobe who was freaking out over a bite mark on his hand. Child-sized bite impression, broke the skin. Guy claimed his daughter threw a tantrum, but someone on the ER staff labeled him suspicious. Our MIA pedophile has a thing about germs, no?"

Morgan's hands tightened around the steering wheel.

Like maybe he could squeeze the life out of the sub-human swimming instructor by proxy.

It was JJ who quietly thanked Garcia and reached out to end the call – on Morgan's phone.

"Derek?"

He shook his head back and forth

"What the hell was he doing that she had to bite him?"

She didn't even try to give him an answer.

…

Questioning the ER staff got them only as far as confirming that the odd man who had been so troubled by the minor injury was, indeed, the same young man who had previously abused Madeleine Merringer.

Maddie.

They were calling her that by now, calling her what her parents did.

They hit a roadblock when they tried to get access to the emergency room video footage.

The hospital administration here was big on policy, as it turned out.

They wanted a warrant.

Morgan pulled JJ around the corner of a gleaming white corridor, looked her in the eye.

"We don't find her within the first twenty-four hours, we're not going to find her alive," he intoned, his eyes intense. "You know that. I know that."

She nodded, sighed. Stuck, hating it.

"Okay, look," she started. "If we put a rush on this, we can get --"

"I'm not wasting that much time." He held her gaze, his eyes imploring. "I just gotta know if you're with me."

She stared at him, uncertain for a moment.

Remembering that it was her job to uphold the law.

And then flashing a mental picture of little Maddie's bedroom, her face, her grin…

"Tell me what you need."

…

Ten minutes later, JJ had flirted the local security guard right out of his office and down to the cafeteria for coffee.

Morgan had taken his place in front of the video monitors.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for.

But he found it all the same, when the unsub's wild gesticulating sent something fluttering out of his jacket pocket.

It took Morgan all of three seconds of squinting at the monitor to realize what it was that the shifty little bastard was snatching up from the floor on the screen.

And he took off for the cafeteria, and pulled JJ away from the guard she'd been stuck chattering with, and neither of them offered the poor schmuck any explanation.

They were half way to their car before she could make sense of what he was saying.

The unsub was staying in a hotel.

The kind with a computerized room key card.

A key card without a logo of any kind.

"That's gotta be rare, right? Hotels like their logos." He looked at her, desperate for agreement.

"I'll call Garcia," was all she said, denying him that reassurance. "And then Hotch."

…

Neither phone call was encouraging.

Garcia came back to them with a far-too-long list of hotels in the area, all of them having recently implemented the kind of computer strip entry system that required a guest only hold the plain white card near the sensor to unlock the door.

Hotch informed them that their personnel resources might become limited, since they couldn't explain to anyone's satisfaction how exactly they had come to this new information.

A press release was out of the question, even if they were to move forward without any concern for the slightly bent rules. Any kind of freely circulated call for public assistance could panic the unsub, and force his hand, killing the girl.

Killing Maddie.

It left the six of them to go from hotel to hotel alone, pair by pair.

It was a maddening process.

On and on they went, from one clueless head shake to another.

And all the while that crucial twenty-four hour mark crept closer.

"Have you seen this girl?"

"You seen this man around here?"

"Have you seen her?"

"Hey, Buddy, help us out, you know this guy?"

"If you could please just keep an eye out…"

"Take a closer look, damn you! _This is a nine year old child!_"

But no one had seen her.

No one could help.

JJ headed back for their car, shaking her head.

Morgan followed after her, stopping to kick a garbage can on the way.

…

Madeleine Merringer had been missing twenty-three hours when they finally caught a break.

Looking back later, it would seem oddly predestined that it was the two of them, and not Reid and Prentiss, nor Gideon and Hotch, that finally came upon the right motel.

It was a decent enough place.

The Fieldcrest Motel.

The pimply teenager at the front desk recognized the photo, programmed an extra key card to room 23.

They didn't wait for backup.

They didn't discuss it, didn't come up with a plan.

They just bolted for the room, guns drawn at their sides, in silent agreement.

They just wanted to find Maddie, just wanted to save that nine-year-old spelling champ who probably never wanted to go swimming again.

They moved quickly, efficiently, silently.

Hearts pounding in their throats, in their ears.

Praying for another Billie.

Another Rebecca.

Another Tracy.

Just one more time.

Just this one more time.

Just this one more kid.

Just _this_ kid…

And for a moment, their prayers were answered.

For a fleeting instant, when they'd opened the door and spotted her sleeping in the bed, all was right with the world.

In the flash of time it took to check that the site was clear, and the few seconds it took to cross over to the bed, they anticipated the moment that would make the hellish day infinitely worthwhile.

She'd open her eyes, and they'd tell her she was safe, and they'd promise to take her home, and then they themselves could head for home feeling warm.

But Maddie was cold when he touched her.

Her wrist wasn't just devoid of a pulse.

It was stiff, and it was cold, and if he looked close enough, her lips were turning blue.

He stared.

Screamed with all his might inside his head.

JJ was somewhere behind him, quietly making the necessary phone calls.

He thought he heard her voice break, thought she might be near tears.

He didn't turn around to check.

The sound of the door being opened and then shut finally made him turn, just to be sure he was alone.

And he was.

She'd gone.

Left him here, with Maddie.

His throat was so tight with the threat of tears that it hurt, but he forced the emotion back down.

And then he bent the rules again, for the second time in one day.

They weren't supposed to touch the body.

But he reached out and brushed the little girl's hair from her face, and righted her clothes, and tucked the blanket tight around her.

He held her hand, too.

And if the crime scene unit didn't like that, they could all go to hell.

…

They drank that night.

Everyone else had already retired to their hotel rooms.

The jet was to leave first thing in the morning.

They'd skipped dinner.

But sleep and nourishment didn't hold the promise of comfort quite like alcohol did.

And so agents Morgan and Jareau traded in the haunting quiet of their hotel rooms for the white noise of a half-decent bar on the first floor.

And they drank.

Hotch had said all the right things.

Gideon, too.

That they'd done their best.

That sometimes they couldn't get there in time.

That they'd save the next kid, or the one after that.

They just needed to remember the Billies, the Rebeccas, the Tracys.

But it was cold little Maddie that lived in their heads tonight.

They sat side by side at the bar, downing one drink after another, without saying much of anything.

Talking was pointless.

Kind of like life.

And when he had enough alcohol in him, Morgan looked around, taking inventory.

Looking for a woman.

Looking for a chance to pound out his anger in bed.

There had been a twenty-something waitress around at some point, but he didn't see her now.

Just two men playing pool, and the male bartender.

Fuck.

_Fuck it all._

He gestured to the bartender that he wanted another drink, but the guy shook his head, tapped his wrist.

"We're closing up shop."

Morgan squinted at the face of the guy's watch.

The damn thing was upside down, and he was a good ways beyond buzzed, but he thought it was about two in the morning.

"Fair 'nough," JJ mumbled from beside him, almost tripping over her own feet as she slid off of her bar stool.

It didn't seem 'fair enough' to him, having to leave when he could still think straight enough to hurt.

But hell, maybe she was further gone than he was.

They barely had the presence of mind to remember their hotel room numbers and sign their bills to their rooms.

And because, even drunk, he was a decent guy, he snaked his arm around JJ as they found their way to the elevator bank, just to steady her on her feet.

Standing still and silent in the elevator a moment later, the physical contact sparked something in him.

It wasn't really a thought.

It was too physical for that.

And too destructive to be any kind of rational.

It was against the rules.

His _own_ rules, which were the ones that mattered.

It went beyond _don't mess with a woman who carries a gun_.

It went right to _she's one of the team_.

But his alcohol-soaked mind didn't care.

His mad-at-the-world heart didn't see what difference it would make.

And so when they started down the hall on their floor and she bypassed his room to head for her own, he grabbed her arm, pulled her back.

And he kissed her.

He was just a little bit rough about it, just a little bit cold.

He wouldn't _seduce_ her.

If she wanted to do this too, she was going to know from the word 'go' what it was about.

He watched her face after he'd pulled away from her, watched surprise turn into something else.

Something like _fuck it_.

And that was all it took.

They stumbled into his room, over to the bed.

They tore at their own clothes, and he interrupted her efforts to undo the damn buttons on her shirt, and so her shirt stayed on through the flurry of panting and cursing and greedy, twisting, angry limbs.

It didn't much matter.

Nothing did.

…

When it was over, they were still too drunk to think straight.

But not nearly drunk enough not to feel.

She hated herself, just a little.

He told himself he didn't.

And when she'd finished silently and shakily dressing, she turned to face him, and tried in vain to meet his eyes.

"We're both adults, right?"

Her tone quiet, hopeful, a bit cautionary.

Everything she needed to say was in those few words.

Everything she needed to believe.

That there was a way to be mature about this.

That it didn't have to change anything.

That it was no one else's business, that no one had to know.

He nodded at the wall, and she left.

And he tried not to think, tried not to feel, tried to block out the image of sickened regret already written all over her face.

She was his co-worker.

His _friend_, too.

He had a good sense that this wasn't like her.

And yeah, no question, he'd been the initiator.

But they _were_ both adults.

And they were _both_ drunk.

And this was on her as much as him.

He said these things to himself, thought he believed them.

But she had the room next to his, and he could hear the shower turn on, and it stayed on for a long while.

He laid there listening to it.

And the funny thing was, he could have sworn he heard crying.

It was in his head.

It had to be.

These walls had to be thicker than that.

He was just hearing things.

Maybe he was hearing Maddie.

Maybe a voice he'd never heard was going to live inside his head from here on in.

Crazy to think, he'd just messed up his relationship with the one other person who might be in that same boat.

Crazy to think, it had started just like any other day.

…


End file.
